


Piano Man

by alba17



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Gen, M/M, Musicians, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:51:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alba17/pseuds/alba17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cellist Steve Rogers pursues a mysterious and reclusive piano virtuoso who happens to have a metal arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piano Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the TowerParty Marvel flash fic challenge. The prompt was “there are things in this world that are larger than destruction, the universe is wide and wild and some things are stronger after they break.” The link might be tenuous, but some how it led me to this AU. It went something like..destruction=>stronger=>Bucky is like Cinderella=>balls=>competitions=>sports=>I don’t know anything about sports=>how about music. Prompt mostly connected to things that didn’t (yet?) make it into the fic. There was too much story in my mind to fit in a quickly written thing, so probably to be continued.

Winter strode onto the stage, his mind focused on only one thing: the gleaming grand piano gloriously displayed in pride of place, ebony black with perfect white keys like a mouthful of teeth, the cover opened wide so the sound could reach the farthest seats in the second balcony. His fingers, even the metal ones, itched to touch the keys, and he could already feel the first notes of the concerto, the way his fingers would move and stretch. The other musicians on stage were invisible to him as he rakishly swept up his coattails, sat down on the piano bench and prepared to play.

The conductor waited, knowing better than to try to catch Winter's eye and lead his performance. Winter was no ordinary musician. One did not attempt to control him. The orchestra would begin when Winter was ready, not when the conductor was.

Winter readied himself, waiting patiently for the signal, the chemical rush that fueled his genius. In a building across the street, his mentor Alexander Pierce hovered over his laptop. He saw what Winter saw, felt what he felt. He could hear the hushed anticipation of the audience, the excitement building.

Winter nodded and the conductor raised his baton. The musicians lifted their instruments, the string players readied their bows. Pierce studied the read-out that displayed Winter's biological status. Just a moment...when the red line reached a certain level...and the blue one dipped slightly...yes! He pressed a button. Winter raised his hands, one flesh, one metal, over the keyboard. His eyes closed.

Pierce pressed another button and Winter began to play.

*

No one understood how James Winter could even play the piano. He'd burst on the scene five years before, doing things on the instrument that most people could only dream of, and he did them with one mechanical hand that seemed ill-suited to artistic endeavors. His mentor, Pierce, had been a prodigy in his early years, but his career had ended prematurely when a mysterious illness had attacked his joints until he could barely move his fingers. Since then he'd brought along many young musicians, but none with the brilliance of James Winter. Where he'd been before the relatively advanced age of 28, no one knew. It was as if he hadn't even existed before Alexander Pierce introduced him in a solo recital at Carnegie Hall where he dazzled the classical music world. 

Appearing in photos with a blank, stolid expression, only coming to life at the piano, the puzzle of James Winter was deepened by Pierce's fierce protection of him from the press. He rarely gave interviews and only under the watchful gaze of Pierce. The mystery only served to fan the flames of the public's curiosity, as a young and fervent set of fans grew up around the handsome Winter. The rabid fans were another excuse for Pierce to keep Winter under wraps. No one even knew where he lived, or why he had a metal arm.

*

Sam Wilson flicked a finger at the People magazine in his lap. "Doesn't he have any other pictures? It's always the same one."

"Who?" Steve Rogers carefully placed his cello back in its stand. He rubbed at a small dirty spot with a rag. That's better, he thought.

"This dude Winter. That guy with the metal arm?"

"Oh yeah." Steve didn't pay that much attention to pianists. He looked through his music for the piece he needed to prepare for the next day. "You okay with the Brahms for Saturday?"

Sam was still looking at the magazine. "What? Oh, sure, that's fine."

Steve assessed him. "I hear he's got some pretty crazy fans. Member of the club?"

Sam threw the magazine down. "Who me? No way, man. Just curious, is all. He's one hell of a mystery."

"Don't know that much about him myself."

"Steve, you spend too much time practicing. You gotta get out more. This guy plays with a freaking metal hand." Sam shook his head. "Amazing. I honestly don't know how he does it."

Steve picked up the magazine and flipped through it. The feature on Winter showed a photo that wasn't the best quality, of the pianist standing with an older, handsome man with pale hair and piercing blue eyes. Steve recognized him as Alexander Pierce. Pierce had tried to recruit Steve to his agency, even though he normally stuck to pianists. Something about the man had unsettled Steve and he'd turned him down. Shortly after that, he and Sam, a violinist, had formed a string quartet with a couple of friends from music school and they'd jokingly dubbed it Avenging Strings. The name had stuck and they'd become pretty successful playing not just the classics, but also a mix of jazz, rock and world music. Steve was more excited about music than he'd ever been.

He studied the picture. Something about Winter looked familiar but he couldn't put a finger on it. "What do you know about him?" he asked Sam.

"Nobody knows nothing, I'm telling you. It's like the guy's a ghost or something, a vampire, I don't know. He looks kinda pale, don't you think? Those eyes are seriously sort of supernatural, all glowy blue. How else would you explain his super human abilities?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Seriously, we should go see him play some time. I'd like to see this metal arm in action."

"If we can get past the fangirls, sure."

 

*

Steve stood outside the door of the imposing townhouse, dreading pushing the doorbell. He checked the address again on his phone, even though he'd memorized it. He had it on good authority, through Sam's friend's babysitter who was a big name fan in the James Winter fan club, that this was where James Winter lived. And, unfortunately, Alexander Pierce, whose home it was. 

He squared his shoulders and pushed the doorbell.

*

Six months before, Steve had been unable to sleep the night he and Sam finally were able to see James Winter play. The concert had been electric. It was a solo recital, just Winter on the piano, and Steve had never seen anything like it. The energy and artistry of the man was incomparable, the performance magnetic. You could hear a pin drop when he finished the last resounding chord and lifted his head from the piano, his hair loose over his forehead, his face damp and his eyes unfocused. Then the audience, half of them young girls and women, went absolutely batshit crazy. It was the polar opposite of the usual classical music concert where the average age was sixty. Steve and Sam looked at each other and laughed uproariously, high on the amazing music and the frenetic atmosphere. 

Steve couldn't stop thinking about Winter that night, how his hands had danced over the keyboard, his metal hand's impressive and completely improbable skill. _How did he do it?_ He imagined playing with him, hearing what Winter could do with the Avenging Strings' type of music, the creativity he'd bring to the group. It would be incredible.

There was something else too, something about the man himself, the inscrutable demeanor, his enigmatic past. Seeing the man in person, even at a distance, had pulled forth the same odd sensation of familiarity. It made no sense, and yet Steve had the overwhelming desire to meet this man, get to know him and find out his secrets. Most of all, to play music with him.

When the Avenging Strings' pianist quit to go to medical school, Steve took it as a sign.

*

A servant led Steve into the living room, where Alexander Pierce greeted him. "Steve, welcome." They shook hands. "I remember you well. How are the Avenging Strings?"

"Good, good. In fact, that's why I'm here." He looked around. There was no sign of Winter. "I was hoping to talk to Mr. Winter about joining us. Our pianist has just quit and we'd love Mr. Winter to play with us, even on a part-time basis."

Pierce's lips thinned. "His schedule's quite full, I'm afraid. And he never plays chamber music. Solo engagements only."

"I thought he might be interested in some of our work with other genres. We're breaking new ground in the string quartet repertoire. Not just the old stuffy classics." Seeing Pierce's frown, he added. "Not that there's anything wrong with that. But his fans might enjoy hearing him play something different, something more...hip."

"Hip, you say?" Pierce looked like he'd bit into a rotten pear. "Not really our cup of tea. James has strict standards."

"Well, you know my credentials. And the rest of the group are equally as capable. Think of it as expanding his horizons. Where is Mr. Winter, anyway, if I may ask? I was hoping to talk directly to him."

Pierce cleared his throat. "He's otherwise engaged at the moment. I'm confident I can speak for him." He took Steve's arm and began to lead him towards the door. "Let's not waste any more of our time. I appreciate your interest, but James' path is set." He nodded to the servant, who opened the front door. "Very nice to see you again, Steve."

Sorely disappointed, Steve didn't move. "Are you sure Mr. Winter isn't available? I'd really like to discuss it with him in person."

"He really isn't. His recent concerts have taken a lot out of him and he needs to rest." Pierce's tone had a hint of steel. "Thank you for coming." He gestured to the open door.

Steve pulled a flash drive out of his pocket and put it on the small hallway table. "I'll just leave this here for Mr. Winter. It has some of our recent recordings on it. He might find it interesting. Please see that he gets it." He didn't wait to see Pierce's reaction, but strode out the door, which closed emphatically behind him.

His gut roiled with frustration. If he could only get to Winter, he felt sure he'd be receptive to what Avenging Strings was trying to do. There had to be some way he could circumvent Pierce and the protective wall he'd constructed around Winter. Steve paused on the other side of the street and looked back. His eye was caught by a movement in one of the second floor windows. A pale face and a glint of metal. For a brief second, his gaze met a pair of blue eyes, then they were gone.

Steve lingered, but saw nothing more. 

*

In the end, it was Sam's friend's babysitter who got Steve in to see Winter. Apparently fangirls knew everything. 

One, two, three, four. Steve got on the fifth stationary bike, which was blessedly empty, and started up the machine. He pretended to be engrossed in ESPN. Five minutes later, like clockwork, Winter got on the next bike over. He wore a long-sleeve t-shirt to cover his metal arm. Steve was disappointed to see him put earbuds in. After an appropriate amount of time, Steve got off the bike and went over to the free weight section, passing close to Winter's bike as he did so.

As he set up some weights and did a few repetitions, he kept one eye on the stationary bikes. In a couple of minutes, sure enough, Winter got off the bike and headed for Steve. Steve grinned, and little thrill of excitement went through him. 

"I think this might be yours," Winter said, holding Steve's phone out to him. "It was on the floor."

"Oh wow, yeah, looks like it. Thanks." Steve made a show of checking the screen to make sure it was his. At that very moment, it rang. The ringtone was Winter playing a Rachmaninoff concerto, one he'd played at the concert Steve and Sam had gone to. Even though it was planned, Steve surprised himself by blushing. He felt like one of Winter's fangirls. Winter stared at him, frowning. Steve held up a finger. "Sam, hi. Yeah, I'm at the gym. I'll have to call you back later." He put the phone in his pocket. "Sorry about that. Thanks again for finding my phone. And returning it."

"No problem." Winter hesitated. "Was that...Rachmaninoff's Second?"

Feeling a tad guilty, Steve said, "Er, yeah." He rubbed his forehead. "Listen, I gotta be honest. I'm a big fan."

To his surprise, Winter smiled. And it was one of the best things Steve had ever seen in his life. Those photos of Winter in the press looking stolid and serious sure didn't do the man justice. His smile was a thing of wonder. "You are?" 

Steve couldn't help grinning back rather stupidly. "Yeah. Big time. Saw you last June playing it. Amazing."

"Um, well, thanks. That's nice to hear."

"You don't get out much, do you? I think you'd be used to hearing that."

Winter looked rueful. "No, I don't. Have we met before? I feel like we have, but I don't remember seeing you at the gym."

"I come here once in awhile." Steve hated lying. All for the greater good, all for the greater good.  
"You gonna do some weights? Need a spotter?"

Winter took a good, long look at him. "Sure."

Along the way, Steve managed to work into the conversation that he was a cellist in a string quartet. Again Winter surprised him. "I've always wanted to play in one," he said. "But the powers that be think a solo career is the best path."

"You could always do both," Steve said, not daring to believe what he was hearing. "In fact, we're looking for a new pianist." His heart began to thump like a bongo.

Winter sat up on the bench where he'd been lifting weights. "I'm listening."

By the end of the session, Steve had explained to Winter - who'd by now told him to call him James - all about Avenging Strings and given him another flash drive to listen to. As he suspected, Pierce never gave the first one to him.

"Why don't you call me after you've listened to it and tell me what you think?" Steve said.

James flashed another charming smile and Steve wondered what he'd done to elicit such a display from the normally dour pianist. "Let's just set a time to get together. I have a pretty demanding practice schedule, so I don't like to waste time." His words were all business but his expression said something more intriguing. 

"Is that so?" Steve arched a brow. "Alright then." They arranged a time and a place to meet in a few days over coffee. Steve hoped and prayed that Pierce wouldn't find out and figure out a way to interfere. "Will this be okay with your mentor?"

James' face stiffened. "Not relevant. It's time I started making my own way." He looked off into the distance and Steve wondered what all was between Pierce and James. Hopefully there'd be time enough to find out. James shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. "You don't have to concern yourself with that." He focused on Steve full-on and everything seemed brighter. "I'm looking forward to listening to this. I think a part of me has been hoping for a change but I didn't know how or what to do about it. Thank you, Steve Rogers. You might just be exactly what I've been waiting for."

"Same to you, James. I've had a feeling about you ever since I saw your concert. I don't know why, just, this is going to sound hokey, but kind of a feeling of fate, like we were meant to meet each other."

James stared at him. Steve could see him swallow. "Yes. Me too. And my friends call me Bucky."

"Bucky? Okay. What's that from?"

"I don't know. I honestly don't know."


End file.
